I came across quite a few language problems while on holiday with my family last summer. The most embarrassing was when my Mom apologized to the people we were staying with because her “pants were dirty”. They looked at her in amazement, not knowing how to react. You see, Mom had fallen over and gotten mud on her jeans. But in Britain, “pants” means underpants, not trousers as it does back home.

Katie — From America

When I asked for the “restroom” in a big department store, people kept directing me to a room with seats where I could sit and “rest”. It took me years to get through to someone that I only wanted the toilet!

Tom — From America

Last summer we went on a two-week family touring holiday, so Dad hired a car over the Internet. This was an old vehicle and there turned out to be lots of things wrong with it. When he phoned the hire company and tried to explain that the lock on the boot(汽车行李箱) was broken, they thought he was talking about footwear! He had no idea their word for “boot” was “trunk”. In the end we went to a garage and just solved the problem.

Mary — From Britain

Last summer, I went to stay with a friend on the west coast. Her flat was on the first floor of a high-rise building so I got the lift up. Then I wandered round for ages looking for her flat but couldn’t find it. Fed up and tired, I finally had to go out to find a phone box. She explained that her flat was on the first floor, which for me meant the ground floor.

David — From Britain

1.Hearing Katie’s mother’s words, Katie’s friends were in amazement because ____________.

A．they mistook “pants” in American for underpants

B．Katie’s mother’s underpants were dirty

C．Katie’s mother got mud on her jeans

D．they didn’t know any English

2.David went out to find a phone box to ____________.

A．phone the police for help                 B．apologize for his being late

C．tell his friends he couldn’t go to visit her    D．phone his friend for help

3. When Tom asked for the “restroom”, the people around him thought _____________.

A．he wanted a chair                       B．he wanted to have a rest

C．he wanted the toilet                     D．He wanted to go to a department store

4.The underlined word “garage” is probably _____________.

A．a parking place     B．a car             C．a place to repair cars D．a gas station

5.Which of the following words is from British English？

A．Pants             B． Restroom         C．Ground floor       D．Trunk

 

My mother came to my bed, night after night, even long after my childhood years. She would 　1 down and push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead.

　 I don’t remember when it first started 2 me-her hands pushing my hair that way, for they felt work-worn and rough 3 my young skin. Finally , one night, I shouted out at her, “Don’t do that any more-your hands are too rough!” she made no 4 and left quietly. But never again did my mother do it with that familiar expression of her 5 .

With the passing years, my 　6 returned to that night time after time. By then I 　7 my mother’s hands and her goodnight kiss. Sometimes the incident seemed very 8 , sometimes far away, but always it was 9 in the back of my mind.

The years have passed, and I’m not a little girl any more. Mom is in her seventies, and those hands I once 10 to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family.

Now, Mom no longer has Dad and lives 11 . One night on Thanksgiving Eve, I found myself 12 to her house to spend the night with her. As I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to 13 the hair from my forehead. Then a 　14 , ever so gently , touched my forehead. I burst into tears.

In my memory, thousands of times, I 　15 the night my young voice complained. Catching Mom’s hand in hand, I told her how 16 I was for that night. I thought she’d remember 17 I did. But Mom didn’t know what I was talking about. She had already forgotten and 18 long ago.

That night, I fell asleep with a new 19 for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was 　20 to be found.

1．A．lie　　　　　　　　　　　　 B．bend　　　　　　　　　 C．look　　　　　　　　　 D．fall

2．A．delighting　　　　　　 B．astonishing　　　　 C．annoying　　　　　　 D．disappointing

3．A．along　　　　　　　　　 B．above　　　　　　　　 C．against　　　　　　　 D．aside

4．A．reply　　　　　　　　　　 B．promise　　　　　　　 C．request　　　　　　　 D．agreement

5．A．pity　　　　　　　　　　 B．sadness　　　　　　　 C．apology　　　　　　　 D．love

6．A．feelings　　　　　　　　 B．thoughts　　　　　　 C．spirits　　　　　　　　 D．opinions

7．A．missed　　　　　　　　 B．forgot　　　　　　　　 C．held　　　　　　　　　 D．shook

8．A．strange　　　　　　　　 B．common　　　 C．serious　　　　　　　 D．close

9．A．stressed　　　　　　　 B．hidden　　　　　　　　 C．changed　　　　　　 D．exposed

10．A．expected　　　　　　 B．changed　　　　　　 C．reminded　　　　　　 D．complained

11．A．alone　　　　　　　　　 B．away　　　　　　　　　 C．yet　　　　　　　　　　 D．long

12．A．stayed　　　　　　　　 B．carried　　　　　　　 C．moved　　　　　　　 D．drawn

13．A．cut　　　　　　　　　　 B．wash　　　　　　　　　 C．brush　　　　　　　　 D．take

14．A．tear　　　　　　　　　　 B．kiss　　　　　　　　　　 C．press　　　　　　　　 D．hand

15．A．returned　　　　　　 B．remembered　　　　 C．realized　　　　　　　 D．recalled

16．A．happy　　　　　　　　 B．sorry　　　　　　　　　 C．angry　　　　　　　　 D．nervous

17．A．when　　　　　　　　 B．how　　　　　　　　　 C．as　　　　　　　　　　　 D．why

18．A．forgiven　　　　　　 B．disappeared　　　　 C．apologized　　　　　 D．abandoned

19．A．imagination　　　　 B．inspiration　　　　　 C．decoration　　　　　 D．appreciation

20．A．still　　　　　　　　　　 B．soon　　　　　　　　　 C．nowhere　　　　　　 D．anyhow

Dear Guys,

I’d like to talk to you about the shame you subjected me to last night. Let me first refresh your memory: You, a group of fit, young men, were playing soccer on the field across from my apartment building. I, a better-than-average looking young woman, was walking along the sidewalk with my groceries. That’s when your ball came flying over the fence and landed in front of me.

One of you approached and asked politely if I would throw the ball back to you. Fighting the urge to drop my bags and run screaming down the street, I reluctantly agreed.

Before I continue, let me explain something that I didn’t have a chance to mention last night: I hate sports. More specifically, I hate sports involving balls. This results from my lack of natural ability when it comes to throwing, catching and hitting. I’m bad at aiming too. So you can understand why I’d be nervous at what I’m sure seemed to you like a laughably simple request. However, wanting to appear agreeable, I put my bags down, picked up the ball and, eyes half-shut, and threw it as hard as I could.

It hit the middle of the fence and bounced back to me.

Trying to act casually, I said something about being out of practice, then picked up the ball again. If you’ll remember, at your command, I agreed to try throwing underhand. While outwardly I was smiling, in my head, I was praying, Oh God, oh please oh please oh please. I threw the ball upward with all my strength, terrified by what happened next.

The ball hit slightly higher up on the fence and bounced back to me.

This is the point where I start to take issue with you. Wouldn’t it have been a better use of your time, and mine, if you had just walked around the fence and took the ball then? I was clearly struggling; my smiles were more and more forced. And yet, you all just stood there, motionless.

Seeing that you weren’t going to let me out of the trouble, I became desperate. Memories of middle school softball came flooding back. I tried hard to throw the ball but it only went about eight feet, then I decided to pick it up and dash with ball in hand towards the baseline, while annoyed thirteen-year-old boys screamed at me that I was ruining their lives. Children are cruel. Being a big girl now, I pushed those memories aside and picked up the soccer ball for the third time. I forced a good-natured laugh while crying inside as you patiently shouted words of support over the fence at me.

“Throw it granny-style!” one of you said.

“Just back up a little and give it all you’ve got!” another offered.

And, most embarrassing of all, “You can do it!”

I know you thought you were being encouraging, but it only served to deepen the shame.

Anyway, I accepted your ball-throwing advice, backed up, rocked back and forth a little, took a deep breath and let it fly.

It hit the edge of the fence and bounced back to me.

I surprised myself --- and I’m sure you as well --- by letting out a cry, “DAMN IT!!!” I then willed myself to have a heart attack and pass out in front of you just so I’d be put out of my misery. Alas, the heart attack didn’t happen, and you continued to look at me expectantly, like you were content to do this all night. I had become a sort of exhibition for you. I could feel your collective thoughts drifting through the chain-link: “Can she really not do it? But I mean, really?”

Unfortunately for you, I wasn’t really game to continue your experiment. Three failed attempts at a simple task in front of a group of people in a two-minute period was just enough blow for me for one night. I picked up the ball one last time, approached the fence and grumbled, “Please just come get the damn ball.”

And you did. And thanks to you, I decided at that very moment to never throw anything ever again, except disrespectful glances at people who play sports.

Sincerely, Jen Cordery

1. The writer agreed to throw the ball because _______.

A. she needed to have a relax carrying the heavy groceries

B. she wanted to refresh her childhood memories

C. she could not refuse the polite request from the young man

D. she had fallen in love with the young man at first sight

2.Which of the following is closest in meaning to the underlined word “game”?

A. anxious                                      B. brave                                C. afraid                                D. curious

3.Why did the writer mention her middle school memory?

A. To explain why she failed the attempts to throw the ball back.

B. To complain that she had not mastered the ball throwing skills.

C. To show how cruel those 13-year-old boys were.

D. To express her dislike towards softball.

4.What the boys said before the writer’s third attempt actually made the writer ________.

A. inspired                                     B. encouraged                     C. embarrassed                   D. depressed

5.What’s the writer’s purpose in writing this open letter?

A. To express her regret over what she did the day before.

B. To announce that she would never play ball games again.

C. To explain her own inability to throw the ball over the fence.

D. To criticize the young men for their cruelty to her dignity.

 

Dear Guys,

 I’d like to talk to you about the shame you subjected me to last night. Let me first refresh your memory: You, a group of fit, young men, were playing soccer on the field across from my apartment building. I, a better-than-average looking young woman, was walking along the sidewalk with my groceries. That’s when your ball came flying over the fence and landed in front of me.

One of you approached and asked politely if I would throw the ball back to you. Fighting the urge to drop my bags and run screaming down the street, I reluctantly (勉强地) agreed.

Before I continue, let me explain something that I didn’t have a chance to mention last night: I hate sports. More specifically, I hate sports involving balls. This results from my lack of natural ability when it comes to throwing, catching and hitting. I’m bad at aiming too. So you can understand why I’d be nervous at what I’m sure seemed to you like a laughably simple request.

However, wanting to appear agreeable, I put my bags down, picked up the ball and, eyes half-shut, threw it as hard as I could.

It hit the middle of the fence and bounced back to me.

Trying to act casually, I said something about being out of practice, then picked up the ball again. If you’ll remember, at your command, I agreed to try throwing underhand. While outwardly I was smiling, in my head, I was praying, Oh God, oh please oh please oh please. I threw the ball upward with all my strength, terrified by what happened next.

The ball hit slightly higher up on the fence and bounced back to me.

This is the point where I start to take issue with you. Wouldn’t it have been a better use of your time, and mine, if you had just walked around the fence and took the ball then? I was clearly struggling; my smiles were more and more forced. And yet, you all just stood there, motionless.

Seeing that you weren’t going to let me out of the trouble, I became desperate. Memories of middle school softball came flooding back. I tried hard to throw the ball but it only went about eight feet, then I decided to pick it up and dash with ball in hand towards the baseline, while annoyed thirteen-year-old boys screamed at me that I was ruining their lives. Children are cruel.

Being a big girl now, I pushed those memories aside and picked up the soccer ball for the third time. I forced a good-natured laugh while crying inside as you patiently shouted words of support over the fence at me.

“Throw it granny-style!” one of you said.

“Just back up a little and give it all you’ve got!” another offered.

And, most embarrassing of all, “You can do it!”

I know you thought you were being encouraging, but it only served to deepen the shame.

Anyway, I accepted your ball-throwing advice, backed up, rocked back and forth a little, took a deep breath and let it fly.

It hit the edge of the fence and bounced back to me.

I surprised myself-and I’m sure you as well-by letting out a cry, “DAMN IT!!!” I then willed myself to have a heart attack and pass out in front of you just so I’d be put out of my misery.

Alas, the heart attack didn’t happen, and you continued to look at me expectantly, like you were content to do this all night. I had become a sort of exhibition for you. I could feel your collective thoughts drifting through the chain-link: “Can she really not do it? But I mean, really?”

Unfortunately for you, I wasn’t really game to continue your experiment. Three failed attempts at a simple task in front of a group of people in a two-minute period was just enough blow for me for one night. I picked up the ball one last time, approached the fence and grumbled, “Please just come get the damn ball.”

And you did. And thanks to you, I decided at that very moment to never throw anything ever again, except disrespectful glances at people who play sports.

Sincerely, Jen Cordery

1.The writer agreed to throw the ball because ______.

A. she needed to have a relax carrying the heavy groceries

B. she wanted to refresh her childhood memories

C. she could not refuse the polite request from the young man

D. she had fallen in love with the young man at first sight

2.Why did the writer mention her middle school memory?

A. To explain why she failed the attempts to throw the ball back.

B. To complain that she had not mastered the ball throwing skills.

C. To show how cruel those 13-year-old boys were.

D. To express her dislike towards softball.

3.What the boys said before the writer’s third attempt actually made the writer _______.

A. inspired                B. encouraged             C. embarrassed                  D. depressed

4.What happened to the ball at last?

A. The writer managed to throw the ball back.

B. The boy got the ball back by himself.

C. The writer threw the ball away out of anger.

D. The boys got angry and left without the ball.

 

Dear Guys,

I’d like to talk to you about the shame you subjected me to last night. Let me first refresh your memory: You, a group of fit, young men, were playing soccer on the field across from my apartment building. I, a better-than-average looking young woman, was walking along the sidewalk with my groceries. That’s when your ball came flying over the fence and landed in front of me.

One of you approached and asked politely if I would throw the ball back to you. Fighting the urge to drop my bags and run screaming down the street, I reluctantly (勉强地) agreed.

Before I continue, let me explain something that I didn’t have a chance to mention last night: I hate sports. More specifically, I hate sports involving balls. This results from my lack of natural ability when it comes to throwing, catching and hitting. I’m bad at aiming too. So you can understand why I’d be nervous at what I’m sure seemed to you like a laughably simple request.

However, wanting to appear agreeable, I put my bags down, picked up the ball and, eyes half-shut, threw it as hard as I could.

It hit the middle of the fence and bounced back to me.

Trying to act casually, I said something about being out of practice, then picked up the ball again. If you’ll remember, at your command, I agreed to try throwing underhand. While outwardly I was smiling, in my head, I was praying, Oh God, oh please oh please oh please. I threw the ball upward with all my strength, terrified by what happened next.

The ball hit slightly higher up on the fence and bounced back to me.

This is the point where I start to take issue with you. Wouldn’t it have been a better use of your time, and mine, if you had just walked around the fence and took the ball then? I was clearly struggling; my smiles were more and more forced. And yet, you all just stood there, motionless.

Seeing that you weren’t going to let me out of the trouble, I became desperate. Memories of middle school softball came flooding back. I tried hard to throw the ball but it only went about eight feet, then I decided to pick it up and dash with ball in hand towards the baseline, while annoyed thirteen-year-old boys screamed at me that I was ruining their lives. Children are cruel.

Being a big girl now, I pushed those memories aside and picked up the soccer ball for the third time. I forced a good-natured laugh while crying inside as you patiently shouted words of support over the fence at me.

“Throw it granny-style!” one of you said.

“Just back up a little and give it all you’ve got!” another offered.

And, most embarrassing of all, “You can do it!”

I know you thought you were being encouraging, but it only served to deepen the shame.

Anyway, I accepted your ball-throwing advice, backed up, rocked back and forth a little, took a deep breath and let it fly.

It hit the edge of the fence and bounced back to me.

I surprised myself-and I’m sure you as well-by letting out a cry, “DAMN IT!!!” I then willed myself to have a heart attack and pass out in front of you just so I’d be put out of my misery.

Alas, the heart attack didn’t happen, and you continued to look at me expectantly, like you were content to do this all night. I had become a sort of exhibition for you. I could feel your collective thoughts drifting through the chain-link: “Can she really not do it? But I mean, really?”

Unfortunately for you, I wasn’t really game to continue your experiment. Three failed attempts at a simple task in front of a group of people in a two-minute period was just enough blow for me for one night. I picked up the ball one last time, approached the fence and grumbled, “Please just come get the damn ball.”

And you did. And thanks to you, I decided at that very moment to never throw anything ever again, except disrespectful glances at people who play sports.

Sincerely, Jen Cordery

1.The writer agreed to throw the ball because ______.

A. she needed to have a relax carrying the heavy groceries

B. she wanted to refresh her childhood memories

C. she could not refuse the polite request from the young man

D. she had fallen in love with the young man at first sight

2.Why did the writer mention her middle school memory?

A. To explain why she failed the attempts to throw the ball back.

B. To complain that she had not mastered the ball throwing skills.

C. To show how cruel those 13-year-old boys were.

D. To express her dislike towards softball.

3. What the boys said before the writer’s third attempt actually made the writer _______.

A. inspired                B. encouraged             C. embarrassed                  D. depressed

4.What happened to the ball at last?

A. The writer managed to throw the ball back.

B. The boy got the ball back by himself.

C. The writer threw the ball away out of anger.

D. The boys got angry and left without the ball.